


Something Wicked

by alchemicals



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bottom Harry Potter, Cheating, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Lord Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Draco becomes a dark lord, Harry becomes a dark lord too whoopsie, Intelligent Draco, M/M, Magic Theory, Magical Theory, No crazy stuff in here just ya regular dark lord creation, Not between Harry and Draco cus ew, Parseltongue, Parseltongue Kink, Powerful Harry, Praise Kink, Rituals, Top Draco Malfoy, but it's not too dark, cunning draco, dark lord draco malfoy, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemicals/pseuds/alchemicals
Summary: Draco wants to rule the Wizarding World.Harry just wants to be himself.Something wicked this way comes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 42
Kudos: 249





	1. Episode One | A Dark Summer

**Author's Note:**

> ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
> 
> ⟶ Hello and welcome to my first episodic dark!fic Drarry. I hope you guys enjoy this tale - I'll be on the journey with you (hehe #pansterproblems) so we'll see how the boys turn out this time. Get ready for graphic violence, in-depth character analyses and LOADS of smut. Come along, Muggle - let us see where this story takes us.
> 
> 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨...  
> 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃ˊˎ-
> 
> ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

The sky screamed a warning call, the thunder clouds pregnant with rain that gushed onto the Manor grounds. Draco Malfoy sat perched on the window seat in the family library, watching the water droplets stream down the pane. If he crossed his eyes enough, he could see his reflection. Dark circles under dead, lifeless eyes, a tired mouth lined with creases. Evidence of words bitten back over the years. His breath fogged the glass, obscuring his face.

Tonight wasn't his Marking. He had thought it would be since it was the last day before 7th Year, but at 3 am, nobody had come to whisk him away to serve his Lord. 

His father's Lord. 

Draco sighed, sliding down from the window seat. He would be Marked soon enough. Already there had been talk of proving his loyalty; a night alone in the woods on a full moon - Greyback had chuckled throatily at that one - or perhaps the _Cruciatus_ of a Muggle family. Whatever it would be, it would exploit Draco's greatest weakness. If he didn't know them already, the Dark Lord would ensure he soon would.

Making his way across the vast expanse of the library, Draco wondered when the prospect of becoming a Death Eater had stopped looking so enticing. He remembered back in 5th Year when all he had wanted was to follow in his father's footsteps. He tried to imagine himself with a bone-white mask and robes as dark as the night itself. A shiver ran up along his spine, but it wasn't of disgust. 

Draco knew the old tit Dumbledore thought he was just a poor child, dragged into slavery by his ritualistic parents. To an extent, he'd be right. Draco went then to the far right of the room, where tomes upon texts of Dark Magic and rituals and rites filled whole walls. But Draco wasn't that different from his father. Only, he wanted his power to come with less fear, less all-encompassing hatred. He wouldn't bow to somebody that didn't possess a nose. The idea of himself in the tacky Death Eater outfit did nothing but make him long for his own thrown, his own velvet cloak and loyal faction. 

Draco Malfoy wanted to be his own Dark Lord. The Dragon King.

Deftly and with the quickness of someone who knew they should not be doing what they are, Draco slid books from the shelves and filled the spaces up again. He did it quietly and without delay, the titles of the wanted texts glowing quietly in his mind. His heart raced, pumping blood so hard it rushed through his ears, drowning out the crackle and pop of the wall torches. Perhaps... well, it was a stupid thought, to think he could overthrow the Dark Lord as a naive 17-year-old boy. But if he gathered his magic - purely hypothetically - and grew in the Dark Arts, then surely more would flock to his court than to Voldemort's side? 

It was an intoxicating thought, one that kept him awake into the late hours of the night scrawling in his journal. Notes in his meticulous handwriting filled almost 6 of the leatherbound books by now, all on possible ideas on his Dark Lord name, how to ascend to power, and possible allies. If Draco were to be so crazy as to truly try and usurp the most powerful wizard of all time, he would surely do it prepared.

Somewhere in the Manor, a door slammed shut, jolting Draco from his thoughts. He cursed, grabbing the few books he'd managed to get and stuffing them under his robes. Flicking off the wall torches with a wave of his wand, he crossed the expanse of the library, careful to not step on any of the floorboards that would surely report to his father. The half-sentient Manor was loyal to a fault.

Draco slid down long hallways, blending into the shadows along the walls. Once, he passed by Rudolphus Lestrange and had to hold his breath to not gag at the stench emanating from the man. Curdled guts and fresh blood. The smell some of the Death Eaters wore as though it were expensive perfume. Draco had taken to sniffing surreptitiously at his own robes, making sure the stomach-curling smell hadn't seeped into them. He was already under enough suspicion at Hogwarts.

He stopped in front of his door, checking behind him to make sure nobody had followed him, and quietly slipped into his room. Shutting the door behind him, Draco leaned against the wall, breathing out. Fuck, if he'd been caught... Well, there was no point dwelling on what if's. He hurried across the room, sinking his feet into the plush black rug. He drew the green velvet curtains with a wave of his wand - pitiful, he couldn't even draw curtains without the help of a piece of wood - and put out the ever-permanent Lumos on the chandeliers. The room plunged into darkness, but Draco wasn't frightened. On some base level, deep beneath his conscious mind, he'd been prepared for this.

He was going to perform this ritual, no matter what it took. 

Setting the acquired books on a settee in front of his bed, Draco shed his robes. They pooled around his pale feet, leaving his naked body exposed. He shivered, though it wasn't cold in his room. He already had his first ritual - the ritual of Dark descent - memorized off by heart. He'd found it while skimming through his father's books on old magic before the book had been seized by Bellatrix, never to be seen again. He couldn't even remember the name, which bugged him to no end.

The ritual began with the shedding of blood. Draco pressed his wand to his left forearm, a thrill of glee shooting through him. 

" _Diffindo,"_ he whispered, biting his lip as a gash appeared on his skin. He would have to get used to pain if he wanted to increase his magic at all. Breathing through the sharp sting, Draco ran his fingers through the sticky blood, coating his palm with it. 

"I am borne of the Dark, a child to its whims. I am prepared to walk the Dark path until the end." A shimmer of magic erupted from his bloody palm. Draco gasped as the surge of power, at the sudden warmth that flooded the cold the Dark Lord had brought into Manor months ago. "I am borne of the Dark, a soldier to its commands. _Accipio descensus tenebris."_

He pressed his palm to his bedroom floor, dripping the blood in a broken circle around his legs. The outside world had faded away, and Draco was left with the gentle whisper of Dark magic surrounding him. It felt sentient, alive in a way he had never experienced before. Everything the Dark Lord touched always had an air of death and decay. Draco had grown so used to it, that when the breath of Dark seized him, his eyes watered. Wiping the tears away, Draco whispered the parting words to the magic, focusing his attention on his magical core. " _Accipio descensus tenebris."_ He felt something in him click open, and a tendril of boiling Dark magic curled itself around his innards. 

Draco welcomed it. The ritual was complete. Rather anticlimactic, but Draco knew some of the more advanced rituals were spectacular. If he were to complete them, that was.

He broke the circle, vanishing his blood and sealing the gash on his arm. He didn't heal it fully, leaving a silvery-white scar that reminded him of the criss-cross hatches on his chest. The thought unsettled him, so he let it go. He would bask in the glow of Dark magic, which hung in the air and over objects in his room like faint gossamer. 

Drained, Draco clambered into bed and drew his curtains around him. Hogwarts would be interesting this year.


	2. Episode Two | Charm & Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is set a task.

Draco woke to terrified eyes staring into his. Narcissa Malfoy had once been - some years past, the memories of such hidden away in Draco's mind - ethereal in her beauty. The constant berating and lewd attitudes of Death Eaters, paired with the hard press of the Dark Lord's magic had dulled her features. Her eyes were dull grey where they had been shining blue, her skin lackluster and sickly. Yet her hair was as shiny and straight as ever, flowing down to caress her hips. She hadn't lost her elegance, either, her posture still ramrod-straight while her manners remained impeccable. Draco did not know how she did it.

On days like these - when the Dark Lord called upon him for a 'quiet chat' - Draco felt like freefalling off of the Manor's tall spires. He slipped out of bed silently, absently noting the chill. The Dark magic sat in his core, a solid ball of warmth that did nothing against the cold outside. Mother stepped back, watching Draco ready himself with an impassive air. 

But Draco could feel her worry. And he had seen her eyes. She was scared for this meeting, and if his own poised mother was at unease, that didn't bode well for him. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and, in one fell swoop, brought his Occlumency shields to full height around his mind. They were flimsy against the Dark Lord, but the effort went unpunished. The Dark Lord made a game of stripping down Occlumency shields, while laziness - or incompetency - was sufficiently struck down. 

Draco subconsciously reached up to the side of his neck, where many shallow cutting charms had once laced the tender skin. He'd vanished those scars in an instant. After that, he'd learned to be an Occlumens fairly fast, however shoddy his walls were. He made a note to strengthen them, wondering if there was a ritual for such, or if he would just have to do the hard work.

"Hurry, my dragon." Narcissa's voice cut deep into Draco's musings. "It doesn't do to keep Him waiting for long." 

Hurriedly, he slipped on a deep green robe and black dragonhide boots. He slid his Malfoy signet ring onto his trembling finger and wrapped his golden family chain twice around his neck in dangling loops. Draco nodded to Mother.

Arm in arm, they exited Draco's quarters and began the nerve-wracking march to the Dark Lord's chambers. He had taken over the master bedroom, his chambers now complete with a tacky throne and henchmen guarding the entrance. Whenever Draco was summoned, all he could see were the memories of his parents, tainted by that glorified reptile.

The venomous thought made him pause. He never thought bad of the Dark Lord - his own obsession with power secreted away in his notebooks, never in his mind - and it did not do to be insolent. One slip and his whole world could come crashing down. Draco already saw the way Mother's hands shook when he came back from these meetings, her eyes eager to know if He had punished her son. He didn't want to cause her more distress.

The Manor was quiet, eerily so. On average, it was filled with raucous laughter and as much discord the Death Eaters could muster. There was nothing like defiling Malfoy property. The hallway to the master bedroom was stripped of all the portraits of Draco's ancestors. Instead, the walls were lined with moving newspaper clippings. They came from the first War, from Voldemort's rise to power, from Ministry invasions - they were chaos encapsulated. The Death Eaters seemed to love them. They laughed over expensive wine at dinner, regaling various tales from the clippings.

Draco never spoke at these gatherings.

Outside the Dark Lord's chambers stood Rudolphous and that pitiful rat, Peter Pettigrew. Draco sneered at the man, cold hatred gripping him. Yes, this was good. Shallow hatred for somebody as beneath him as Pettigrew would mask the other, denser hatred. Taking a deep breath, Draco released Mother, patting her arm absently.

Rudolphous' sharp eyes caught all. 

"Draco, Draco, Draco." His voice was a grating rasp. "Still Mummy's little boy, aren't you? Not fit for a Death Eater yet, I see."

Scoffing, Draco swept past his uncle, careful to not gag at his stench. Just as he raised a fist to knock on the door, a beefy hand grabbed his bicep in a rough grip. Draco lifted his head to Rudulphous' dead gaze. The other man smiled, chapped lips stretching over yellow teeth.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Drakey," he said. "Our Lord doesn't seem too happy with you Malfoys." 

Draco gave him a tight nod, tugging his arm out from his Uncle's grip. There would be bruises there, tomorrow. 

The door swung open, an ominous creek echoing in the hallway. Draco glanced at Mother, who nodded minutely. Drawing himself up, Draco strode into the Dark Lord's chambers. The cold hit him first, striking his bones with ice. Gasping, he stepped into the room, forcing his body not to flinch when the door slammed shut behind him. The room itself was dim, shrouded in darkness. The metal throne sat in the middle of the room, glinting strangely.

The Dark Lord looked the same as always.

"Draco," he hissed. "You've come to me."

Draco sunk to his knees, bowing his head. “My Lord. I came as soon as you called for me.”

A throaty rasp filled the room. Draco kept his body still at the laugh and wondered if this was the end of him. Just as he had begun his first steps. Calmly, Draco took the thought and deposited it somewhere far removed from his mind. He did not need ideas of his plans - however fantastical and unrealistic they were - to saturate his head. The Dark Magic in his core was a low burning flame, the feeling of it comforted him.

“Yes, my most loyal of servants, I’m sure.” The Dark Lord said. “Tell me, Draco, do you consider it lucky you have evaded the Dark Mark this time?”

Draco was silent. His mind flicked over different answers, but he discarded each one as soon as they popped up. Steeling himself, he took on somebody else’s countenance. What would Severus have said?

“I know that you have something planned, my Lord. If it did not require my Marking, then that is only a side effect.”

The creature on the throne stood up swiftly. A low, rumbling hiss filled the room, and fear gripped Draco’s heart. He had made the wrong choice. He had said something wrong, and now Nagini - hidden away in the shadows - would strike, and swallow him whole.

The temperature in the room dropped further until Draco’s breaths came out half-crystallized.

“You dare presume Lord Voldemort has plans for you?” The Dark Lord hissed, stalking closer to Draco’s shivering body. He outstretched his hand, and despite the absence of a wand, Draco had never felt this scared for his life. This was the fear that he despised. This feeling of lily-livered weakness. “Draco, it seems I have spoiled you far too long.”

The windowpanes rattled, the sound crescendoing into a cacophony as the torrent of rain crashed against the glass. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw a looming, writhing shape slither closer towards him. 

Draco bent farther into the dusty floorboards until his nose almost pressed against the grime. “I am truly sorry, my Lord. I did not mean to offend.”

The Dark Lord dropped his hand. The window panes ceased their rattling, and Nagini appeared to drop back into the shadows. “Of course you did not, child. Still, you must earn your place amongst my ranks. You Malfoys may worm your way into every operation, but not mine. I have set a task for you that does not require the Mark.”

Instead of opening his mouth again, considering how that had gone, Draco waited to be spoken to.  
“You will destroy Dumbledore, or risk my wrath upon everything you have ever known and loved. Your precious Narcissa will be the first to go.”

The Dark Lord tapped once on his head. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin, but obediently looked up into garnet eyes. His Occlumency shields wavered, but the Dark Lord was not probing for memories or thoughts. He studied the lines of Draco’s face, swept his cold gaze over the dead eyes and lackluster hair.

“Do something about that appearance of yours, won’t you, Draco?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

The wizard nodded once and swept away to the bookshelf by the bed. Draco took that as a dismissal and excused himself from the room. 

Outside, he ignored both his Uncle’s and Mother’s questions, his mind already on the notebooks he’d hidden away. There was a chance he could grow more influential than that monster, yes. But not in a million eons could Draco hope to defeat Dumbledore.

Circe. What was he going to do?


	3. Episode Three | The Darkest Arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's studying begins.  
> Harry explodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⟶ Hey guys! Thanks so much to all those reading Something Wicked. This fic has become like stress-relief to me. Whenever I feel particularly creative or down, I pop into my Google Docs and write a few hundred words. If you're enjoying it, leave a kudos and a comment!
> 
> 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨...  
> 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃ˊˎ-

Draco sat in an empty carriage on the Hogwarts express, his eyes trained on the words in front of him. The Dark Magic sat in his core, a toiling broth that injected his veins with adrenalin. It came with this need for raw knowledge. He had always been a reader, inhaling whatever fiction he could find, but this was different. He wanted to know about magic. Too long had he taken it for granted, and the ritual seemed to have compensated for that. Even his Charms textbook, which he had read within the first hour of the ride, had held fascinating information. He’d tapped the words and concepts that interested him with his wand to light them up, so later on, he would cross-reference them in the library.

Then thoughts of his task had set in, and Draco knew that only something darker would be able to keep his mind off of everything. So he’d transfigured the cover of the smallest ritualistic journal, The Darkest Arts, into something innocuous, and set about reading that. 

He flipped the page, eyes roaming over the detailed illustrations of wizards and witches performing the ritual of Eve. It connected the caster’s magic to the earth, which would open a branch of elemental magic that the Wizarding World had forgotten existed. It was mentioned in the History of Magic textbook only once, as a metaphor for how far wizarding kind had come.

Draco wondered if Dumbledore had such magic at his disposal. Then he stopped wondering at all and forced his mind back to the page.

The landscape zoomed past the windows, delving deep into the night. And still, nobody called for him. Perhaps Mother had made it known that Draco was to not be disturbed this year. Was it out of pride, or out of fear for him? Perhaps he should not have left without a proper word with her, but privacy was impossible to ask for in a house full of eyes and ears. 

Draco set the book down and picked up his newest notebook. In it, his detailed, slightly far-fetched plans had delved into lesson plans and notes for himself to follow to attain magical control efficiently. He spread out the books he had bought on the subject on the table before him and was about to choose from one when the carriage door slammed open. Draco tapped twice on the books, grateful that most high-end books came with in-built cover transfiguration. 

In stumbled a slightly-haggard looking Harry Potter, and his red-haired Weaslette.

“May I help you, Potter?” Draco drawled, leaning gracefully back into his seat. Potter’s bright green eyes snapped to his, and Draco relished in the weariness that crept over the Saviour’s face. 

“Malfoy. I didn't know this carriage was occupied.” Potter mumbled something, his eyes flicking over the mess of books, papers, and quills over the table, and shook his head. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

He turned to go, but the Weaslette held his arm fast.

“You’re looking awfully suspicious, Malfoy. Sure you’re not up to anything?” The silly bint sneered. Draco snorted. He supposed she thought she was doing her country a great service by harassing him.

“I’m studying as I have my NEWTS, in case it’s managed to escape your notice. Some of us are of age, and will need to be going into the world of work, soon.” He flicked his gaze over her body, tilting his head as though he’d never seen a girl so childish.

Truth be told, he hadn’t even bothered to give She-Weasel a second glance.

Her pasty skin burst red, the flush seeping it’s way down her neck in the ugliest manner possible. Draco himself blushed quite nicely, a faint pink sheen only appearing on his cheeks. It was far easier to hide than the bint’s tomato factory.

“Listen here, you bastard-”

Potter placed a large hand on her shoulder. He bent his head closer to the She-Weasel, murmuring something unintelligible. Draco rolled his eyes.

“Feel free to make yourselves at home,” Draco said. He waved his hand regally over the carriage. “I’ll be sure to transfigure a palace for your Highnesses.”

Suddenly, the carriage flickered, and for a few moments, the bedroom of a palace glinted through the folds of reality. Draco gaped at the lavish golden curtains and the plush, velvet purple bed. Then, as quickly as it came, the vision faded in a shower of silver sparks. Potter and the She-Weasel were silent.

“Malfoy,” Potter said. He swallowed. “What did you just do?” 

The problem was, Draco didn’t know. He hadn’t meant to, but now that he examined his magical core, he felt the Dark pulsating softly. Suppressing a giddy smile, Draco shrugged and turned back to his books and papers. It was starting. Soon, he would be the most powerful wizard in England. Then, he would go for the Dark Lord. The Dark Magic fed on these thoughts, bubbling happily in his chest.

“We’re watching you, Malfoy,” She-Weasel said. Draco hummed, as though he’d never heard such a boring thing in his life. “And don’t think we don’t know what you are. It’s written all over you.”

That did make him chuckle. Oh, if only they knew. He listened until the silly bint and Potter left, most likely arm in arm, shutting the carriage door behind them. Their voices faded away in the background, and Draco settled himself against the wall. He’d need his rest if he was going to overthrow the Wizarding World.

[][][]

Harry was worried. These days, he was always worried. He worried about the way his magic crackled on his skin like electricity, reaching out to fry anybody that even slightly harassed him. He worried about Ginny and the devoted way she stuck by his side, never taking her large eyes off him for a second. It was a bit weird, but Harry knew how important it was to have a constant in your life. He was Ginny’s constant.

The need to be needed made him keep his mouth shut.

Now, Harry worried about Malfoy. He was nervous about what the git might do. Harry had caught the surprise in Malfoy’s face when he’d transfigured the carriage into a bedroom for a split second, and he knew Malfoy. If there was any way he was magically powerful, he would exploit it. 

The first few weeks of Hogwarts passed in a blur. Ron and Hermione dogged his every move, keeping up their inane chatter and brightly lit smiles. Somedays it was rather nice, listening to them prattle on about God only knew what, but most of the time it annoyed him. But he kept his mouth shut. Positivity was important, now more than ever.

Ginny sat on his lap at mealtimes, blocking his view of the Slytherin table. Harry had to surreptitiously lean around her small, curved frame to keep an eye on Malfoy. The blonde had done nothing but keep his head in his books. Harry frowned. He hadn’t pegged Malfoy for a reader, but every time he looked over Malfoy was busy with a sheet on the table, a book in his lap and a slice of toast in his left hand, making notes while he ate.

Harry ached to see what the git was doing.

Malfoy had cleaned up over the summer. He still had bags under his eyes, but they made him look gracefully tired rather than dead. His blonde hair fell around his face in a middle parting, the back and sides cut short. Harry would never admit it to anybody but himself, but Malfoy looked beautiful. Like royalty. 

“Are you even listening to me, Harry?” Ginny snapped him out of his thoughts. Harry looked sheepishly up at her.

“Sorry, no. Remind me again what you were saying?”

His girlfriend huffed. “I was saying how nice it will be to leave school and finally get married.”

Harry hesitated for a second, but at Hermione’s inquisitive gaze, he nodded quickly. “Yeah - yeah. It’ll be nice to settle down, relax. Have kids…”

His answer must have been the right one, because Ginny made a pleased noise, and forced a cream-covered strawberry between his lips. Harry obediently chewed, wincing at the taste. She never listened when he told her he couldn’t stand strawberries.

Everything had been going so well until their third week of Potions. 

Harry was having a shit day as it was. Ginny was ignoring him for something he wasn’t even sure he had done, and Malfoy was skulking around more than usual. Ron and Hermione were busy making eyes at each other whenever he caught sight of them, and everything was just all wrong. He huffed, stabbing the tip of his quill into the inkpot.

Ink splashed out, staining his parchment and the Potions desk. Snape’s head snapped up and his dark, glittering eyes spotted Harry. 

“Mr. Potter, if there is a problem, speak up now.”

Harry shook his head.

“I'm afraid I can’t hear you, Mr. Potter.”

The tell-tale prickle of Harry’s magic flared up around him, burning the hairs on the back of his neck. In his peripheral vision, Malfoy turned around from his new seat at the front of the class to stare at him. His grey eyes were glittering. Harry would have bothered to determine the emotion, but he couldn’t think behind the wall of impending magic.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Potter,” Snape said, a smug look gracing his pinched features. Harry was hyperventilating, his breathing coming out hot and shallow and fast. He stood up, barely aware of the stool that clattered to the ground.

Ron reached out and placed a hand on his elbow. Harry let out a pained noise at the contact. It took everything in him to stop his magic from singing his best mate’s fingers off. Malfoy leaned forward eagerly, his eyes rapturous. Harry felt something strange bubble up in his chest.

Snape stood up just as quickly, his wand peeking out from the sleeve of his long cloak. Harry thought if the greasy git opened his mouth one more time, he would explode.

“Stuff your points,” Harry spat. Snape raised an eyebrow. “I spilled ink and kept quiet. So what? You think that deserves points to be taken off?”

Below him, Hermione slammed her face into her palm, a quiet huff escaping her. The room was terse, the silence thick and deafening. Harry didn’t even flinch as Snape regarded him calmly. His blood was turning into molten lava in his veins, fueling his anger. He was a building kettle, his magic bubbling up into his throat.

“Maybe not, Potter,” Snape said, nodding. “But your insolence deserves plenty more than that. Detention, Mr. Potter. And sit yourself down, you’re making a scene.”

Harry exploded.


	4. Episode Four | A Friend of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say charity begins at home. So does becoming a Dark Lord.

Draco sat in the Hospital Wing, shielded behind a privacy screen. He could hear the Golden Trio murmuring softly to his left, and Madam Pomfrey bustling about the ward to his right. Potter’s magical influx had exploded the cauldrons, sending bits of iron and pewter sailing across the classroom. They embedded into flesh, tore through school uniforms. One had lodged itself into Draco’s cheek. He ran his tongue near the tender inside flesh. A quick sip of a Minor Scrapes & Maladies potion had fixed it right up. Draco himself had settled into the bed for the day, with a Charmed copy of The Darkest Arts in his lap.

He was going to perform a small rite to increase his magical stamina. It wouldn’t have the same effect as endlessly training - which he planned on doing in the Room of Requirement each night - but it would give his Dark Magic a boost. Along with his newfound knowledge, Draco knew that if he didn’t learn to hide his abilities soon, the teachers would begin to ask uncomfortable questions.

A greater sense of control was needed. 

He turned the page to the rite and was about to dive straight into reading when his privacy screen opened. Severus stepped in and Charmed it silent. 

“Draco,” he greeted. “I see you have recovered well.”

Draco inclined his head, setting the book down. “I wasn’t badly hurt. Just a bit of my cauldron was lodged into my cheek. Any other damage was from the residue magic.”

Severus hummed and perched on the edge of Draco’s bed. His godfather placed a comforting hand on his ankle over the duvet covers. Hair, greasy from decades of working with potions, fell in a black veil around his face. Severus was thinking.

“You seem calm about the situation,” he said.

“It’s not my job to persecute the idiot,” Draco said, crossing his legs underneath the duvet. “I will be enacting the strongest form of revenge, of course, but that can wait.”

The Golden Trio let out a round of, particularly obnoxious giggles. Draco rolled his eyes as far as they could go, wishing Madam Pomfrey hadn’t put him right next to the group of blundering idiots.

“Potter seems to be far more powerful than we could have ever imagined,” Severus mused. He glanced surreptitiously at Draco, who nodded noncommittally. 

“Accidental magic isn’t rare, Severus,” Draco said.

“It is when the wizard is of age and has gone through seven years of magical schooling.”

Draco snorted. “Potter has been here, in total, for all of three years, with all the adventures he embarks on.”

“Still, Draco. Do not let this opportunity for glory pass you by. The Dark Lord will require a statement from me, but were you to give it first…”

In other words, out Potter now, and glory will be yours. But at what cost?

Dread slid down Draco’s throat, and the smirk on his face slid off easily. He looked away, his mind whirring. He did not want anything to do with that monster. Not yet, not until he could look upon those red eyes and feel no fear. He didn’t know how long that would take, but he wasn’t prepared to place his bets now.

Circe. All this seemed like a child’s play dream, the more he thought about it. 

“I will leave you to think about it, Draco.” Severus stood up, his gaze was heavy. “In other news, you have guests who wish to see you.”

With a wave of his wand to dismantle the privacy wards, Severus opened the screen to allow Pansy, Blaise, and Daphne to walk in. Draco smoothed his features over. It pained him, slightly. He had clearly become soft in the weeks at Hogwarts. If he were to become the Dragon King, his poker face couldn’t melt. Not ever. He had to be on his guard at all times to keep his secrets to himself.

“Draco, it’s so good to see you!” Pansy said, walking to his side calmly. She pressed a light kiss to his forehead and grabbed his chin with a sharply manicured hand. Her nails were black and sharpened to deadly points. She frowned, inspecting the damage, and Draco allowed her the reassurance. “That old bint seems to know what she’s doing. There’s hardly a mark on you.”

Blaise curled his lip. “It’s a fucking wonder why Potter’s still here. If you ask me, the bastard should have been expelled as a safety hazard years ago.”

Weasley’s voice piped up over the din of the Infirmary. “It’s a bloody good thing nobody’s bothered to ask you then, isn’t it, Zabini?”

Behind the screen, Draco knew it was Potter who made the choking noise that sounded far too close to a snort to his liking. 

Blaise rolled his dark eyes and came to stand beside Draco’s headboard, his arms crossed. He looked, for all intents, like a beautiful statue, carved from marble and just as immovable.

Daphne wandered over, her pretty face alight with gossip and mystery. Draco sat up properly. She had always been the best source of information on how the Slytherin’s were feeling. With her gossip, he would be able to ascertain what the mood was like in the House in general, and if anybody knew about his task.

“Daphne,” Draco murmured, patting the bed beside him. Daphne looked enraptured for a moment. Somewhere in front of them, Pansy snorted and muttered something to Blaise. Draco ignored them and focused his attention on Daphne. If he were not so irrevocably attracted to men, he would have considered dating the girl.

“They are restless,” she whispered fervently as she sat down. It didn’t take a genius to know who she was talking about. Without thinking, Draco threw up a privacy Charm. He strained without his wand, but soon it settled around the both of them like a glove. Daphne smiled prettily. “Some of their parents have informed them of your situation. Most of us believe you will make it out alive.”

“And the rest?”

Daphne twirled a chestnut brown curl around her finger. “They are undecided.”

Draco hummed. He looked away, concentrating on the matter at hand. If he did not complete his task, but instead grew in magical strength and - later on - political power, his Slytherin’s would be torn. What he did not know was the weight of their loyalties to each side. Either they were a supporter of the Dark Lord, or loyal to Slytherin.

It meant good for Draco if they were loyal to their House. He ruled Slytherin. Loyalty to it meant loyalty to him. 

Draco reached out and squeezed Daphne’s small, frail hand. She nodded in understanding and tapped her wand on the privacy Charm to dispell it.

Blaise waggled his eyebrows at him. Draco allowed a smirk to grace his lips, and leaned back, watching his friends chatter amongst themselves. He would need to make them allies, soon. 

The thought made his smirk sharpen.

  
Madame Pomfrey released them all before the end of the school day. Groans filled the Infirmary when she informed them that their last class, Transfiguration, would still be on. Draco had packed his things up quietly, his mind already focused on the lesson. The ritual of Dark Descent made him crave any bit of knowledge available. Despite the fact he’d ready and practiced many of the spells in their Transfiguration textbook, Draco walked as quickly as he could to McGonagall’s classroom.

When he slipped inside, he found that he had been beaten to first in the class only by Granger. The girl sat a few rows from the front, no doubt saving seats for Dumb and Dumber. Draco snorted, shaking his head as he made his way to the front. He’d taken to sitting near the teacher in most classes. Pansy and Blaise called him mad. The Dark roiled around in his magical core, hot and aching to be used. Draco studied until the early hours of the morning and wondered if they weren’t right.

Students filled the class rapidly, as though everybody wanted to get the lesson over and done with as quickly as possible. Draco’s quill flew on the parchment as McGonagall began to speak. Often she would glance at him, and there was that peculiar light in her eyes when she saw him. He knew she was talking to his other teachers to see if he was the same in other classes. Draco wondered if he was surprising her.

Something tapped on the window. Draco, who was sitting closest to it, glanced. He barely suppressed a gasp. A thestral, large and imposing, with milky white eyes and leather skin, stared at him. Its wings flapped insistently as it nudged the glass with its nose.

“What the hell is that thing?” Somebody called out. It sounded like Dean Thomas.

Draco ignored them, watching curiously as the thestral licked the glass. He placed his hand on the cool surface. The thestral pressed one gaunt cheek to where his palm connected with the glass. It let out snuffling sounds, muffled by the walls between them.

“It’s a thestral,” Granger informed. “You’ve probably never seen one. They only appear to those who have witnessed death.”

Draco tilted his head. Yes, he thought. Those who had witnessed death, and those who newly embarked on the Dark path. Newly Descended experienced the death of a part of their magical core, and that triggered something in the frontal cortex that allowed them to see the creatures.

It was fascinating stuff, mixing Muggle science with magical theory.

“What’s it doing with Malfoy, then?”

“-probably killed somebody and it smells the blood on him.”

“Him? Kill somebody? I could beat him in a fight, no bother.”

The class dived into a torrent of noise as everybody pitched their two cents in. Draco heard Granger and Weasley arguing to themselves, yet Potter’s voice was absent. He hummed, wondering what the Golden Boy thought. He didn’t know what it was, but he had the feeling that Potter was more than he was letting on. He would never have admitted it, but Severus was right. Potter’s magical outburst was one of the most powerful that Draco had seen. Ever.

It intrigued him.

“There will be silence in my classroom!”

McGonagall rapped on the board with her wand, and almost immediately the chatters and whispers died down. Draco lowered his hand, and watched the thestral flap its leathery wings once, twice, before it galloped away. He turned around to find more than a dozen pairs of eyes on him. Potter was busy scribbling on a piece of paper, glancing up to peer at him periodically, before he gave the note to Granger. The Golden Trio glared at him, almost simultaneously. If Draco had cared more, he would have found it amusing.

McGonagall was frowning at him, but then she began again where the lesson had stopped. Looking down, Draco tried not to shudder at the green gaze he could feel boring into his back. 

Draco did not know what he’d expected when he walked into the Slytherin common room. Despite being at Hogwarts now for a few weeks, he hadn’t paid much attention to how his fellow snakes had been doing. His head was buried so far deep into his studies, from Hogwarts-issued texts to The Darkest Arts, that he hadn’t spoken to many people besides Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne. 

So when the congregation of the older years all stood to face him, Draco wondered if he should be worried. Theo Nott stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. But Draco’s sharp eyes caught the tense way he held his wand and the surreptitious glances at his fellow snakes. Draco stood taller and took comfort in the Dark rolling around in his core. He made sure his three best friends were placed where they could protect him and went to confront Theo.

“We have decided you are unable to complete your task,” Theo announced confidently. “We can’t take orders from a dead man, you see.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, a smirk blossoming on his lips at the winces on some of the others’ faces. As always, Theo was woefully tragic at anything remotely close to Slytherin subtlety. He bent forwards, holding the other boy’s gaze in the cage of his own. Curling his lip, Draco flicked his wand, murmuring a hex under his breath. It was one from the Charms textbook that he’d modified to increase the pain. The hex tightened the skin on the victim’s body, stretching it out until it was as thin as parchment. He had tested it out on a rat. It was fascinating, the way hair strands fell out as the follicles were damaged.

“Is that so?” Draco murmured. 

Theo shifted, clearly uncomfortable. There were no visible signs of the hex just yet, but Draco knew soon the pain would make it impossible for Theo to speak coherently. “I have decided that such accusations are idiotic, and those that suggest them will be dealt with in an appropriate manner.”

He felt high like this. This power to discipline and take control, it made Draco heady. But he knew he didn’t want to rule with fear. He raised his wand again and looked up at the rest of them as he waited for Theo to start showing the true horror of the hex. Their eyes were wide, mouths pinched into tiny openings. Greg and Vince looked torn. 

Draco hummed absently. It spoke of how removed he had been, for them to have changed loyalties right under his nose. But that was fine. He could easily remedy that.

Theo’s pale skin erupted into bright red. His cheeks began to stretch, peeling back to reveal the hints of soft, glistening flesh underneath. His eyes disappeared under moth-skin layers and his lips started to peel back. A low, keening groan erupted from his chest, and Draco flicked his wand again, countering the hex.

Slowly, with breaths held, the room watched as Theo’s body returned to normal, albeit with rashes all over him. He grunted, grabbing his stomach and bent over. Pansy stepped away, turning her face. Daphne Conjured a bucket and placed it just as Theo threw up green bile, dotted with red splotches. Draco huffed, folded his hands behind his back, and made his way up to his dorm room.

He had made his point. There was no other head of Slytherin House. Nobody but Draco was in charge, and it would do them all good to remember that.


	5. Episode Five | A Streaking Comet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry can't keep his magic, or his temper, under control as a not-so sinister plot brews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⟶ Hey guys! SORRY FOR THE LATE UPLOAD, I was writing something else and got in a funk after I finished a hard chapter, but we're back now :D If you're enjoying it, leave a kudos and a comment!
> 
> 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨...  
> 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃ˊˎ-

Harry couldn’t walk through the halls without fellow students hurling questions at him about Potions class. How many times did he have to say no he hadn’t meant to blow up Snape’s classroom or affirm that no, he didn’t kill anybody. He was lucky that it was true. At night, images haunted him, dead eyes and faces pierced with bits of pewter and lead. These dreams muddled his head, making it hard for Harry to trust his memories. He wasn’t sure what had happened that day. All he remembered was a bright fireball erupting from his chest, and the euphoric feeling of magical release. 

Since then, he’d reapplied the chains around his excess magic, and Hermione helped him with exercises to control his temper. He couldn’t afford to lash out at somebody; his magic would most likely consume them alive. As such, Harry had to force a strained smile on his face at every question and often escaped to various hideouts around the castle to get away from the buzz and drama of it all.

His thoughts never left Malfoy. Sometimes he dreamt of the blonde hugging the thestral from Transfigurations class. Others he just dreamt of Malfoy. Those nights he woke up earlier than usual, sweat-stained and ashamed.

Harry tightened his grip on his broom, lowering himself nearer to the handle as the wind streamed past his body. His dark curls whipped around his face, the cold biting his chapped lips, stinging his ears. He breathed in the ice, climbing higher and higher, speeding faster and faster. This was his salvation. Flying was the only thing that blocked out the voices, blocked out the urges in his mind. Harry needed this. Without it, he didn’t know if he would be able to stop himself from breaking Ginny’s wrists. Or smashing Hermione’s head in and snapping Ron’s spine. 

Harry chased his escape, soaring through the air. Nearer the clouds, his chest tightened, unable to breathe in the thin air. Head spinning, Harry let himself drop into a dive, air resistance pressing against his face like a wall. Up and down, around, looping round and round, until his body screamed in pain at every movement. It was time to come down.

He landed deftly on the damp grass. Every exposed part of his skin was flushed red from the cold, and Harry could feel his heart racing in his chest. The calm feeling wouldn’t last long but he planned on drawing it out as long as it would go. He twirled his broomstick onto his shoulder and began walking to the changing rooms.

A small, soft bundle launched into him. 

Harry’s instincts fueled him. Without conscious thought, he’d lowered his broom and brought his wand up to press against fiery red hair. Ginny stared up at him with large blue eyes, her small mouth opened in shock. Harry let out a huff and lowered his wand. Merlin, he really was out of control. He’d almost hexed his girlfriend to ashes. And yet, Harry couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for it. She had startled him, and the fact that she wasn’t a pulverized mush on the ground was good enough to satisfy his grated conscience.

“It’s just me, Harry,” Ginny said. “I was watching you fly and Merlin, you looked absolutely gorgeous! Just like a blazing comet.”

She fluttered her eyelashes, pressing the soft swell of her breasts against his side. Harry stretched his lips into a thin smile and patted the top of her head.

“Thanks, Gin. I was just heading to have a shower, so I’ll meet you-”

“-Well,” she interrupted him with a rough finger on his lips. “I was thinking that you and I could have a little fun.” 

She trailed her hand up to his stomach, blatantly feeling up his abs. Harry had changed dramatically from that small, scrawny kid hidden underneath the Dursley’s stairs. He’d grown taller - nowhere near as tall as Malfoy’s 6 foot something, but a respectable 5 foot 11 inches - he’d gained muscles from constantly training for the war, and his hair looked at least a bit sexier than a bird’s nest.

Still, it made him feel weird and awkward when girls fawned all over him right after a Quidditch game. And now Ginny was doing the same thing. Harry grimaced. He took a deep breath, reaching for the feeling inside of him that he’d had when he first started liking Ginny. Back then, he’d been smitten, unable to take his eyes off of her. Perhaps the ongoing war had changed him more than he knew.

“Gin, I’m all sweaty,” Harry countered, inching away from her. The changing rooms were a large building by the Quidditch pitches, designed to hold each of the four Houses. Harry was so close to them, he could taste the lovely heat of the shower beating out the tension in his muscles. 

Ginny only clung onto his arm, rubbing various parts of his body.

“So? I’m into that kinda thing,” she simpered. Harry had had enough. He could feel his magic bubbling up in his throat, could feel the tell-tale sting in his fingertips. He had to get away from her.

“Well, I’m not. I’ll see you later, Gin.” Harry ripped his arm from her grip and rushed into the Gryffindor changing room. He barely heard Ginny’s complaints over the slam of the wooden door, and slumped onto a bench, bent over and knackered.

  
In the Gryffindor Common room, Harry’s friends were all gathered around the large round table by the stairs that led up to the dorms. Hermione spotted him and waved a hand, calling him over.

“Harry, we’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Harry frowned, settling into the seat between her and Dean Thomas. Clearly, it hadn’t been a very thorough search if she hadn’t thought of one of his most frequent, and visible, hiding places.

“Ron and I were just discussing Malfoy, and what that whole thestral thing was.” Hermione’s voice dipped quieter as she spared a glance at Dean, Seamus, and Neville who were all laughing over shared cups of tea on the other side of the table. Ron stuffed a custard cream into his mouth and leaned closer to them, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

“Malfoy’s definitely up to something.” Harry pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. “He goes to the Room of Requirement each night for an hour exactly, before he goes back to bed.”

Ron squinted at him. “You still stalk the git with your Map? I’d thought you’d given up the whole stalking thing in sixth year.” 

Harry flushed, looking away. He mumbled something incoherent and ignored the look both Ron and Hermione shared. “Look, that’s not the topic up for discussion, alright? What are we going to do about Malfoy?”

“Nothing, Harry,” Hermione said, shuffling her papers. She had Transfiguration and Charms textbooks spread out in front of her, and her eyes scanned the pages as she spoke. “Yes, Malfoy’s acting stranger than normal, but that’s no grounds to invade someone's privacy.”

“Yeah, mate, what she said. Anyway, Malfoy’s so busy swotting it up he can’t possibly have enough time to kill a Hufflepuff or something.”

At that, Hermione perked up. Her tan skin shone dark caramel in the warm light of the Common room. “That reminds me! Malfoy’s really buckled down this year - do you see the number of books he takes out from the library each week? - so I thought I’d double up my efforts.”

Harry rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Malfoy could never beat you, Hermione. There’s no need to worry.”

At that, she shrugged and went back to scribbling furiously. Harry rolled his eyes, and breathed deeply, once, twice. Until the urge to set fire to her parchment disappeared.

Worry bit at Harry’s mind like a rat, nibbling on his thoughts. If he didn’t get himself under control, and fast, then somebody would end up getting hurt. And Harry didn’t think anything, not even anger-management exercises, would be able to hold back his wild magic after that. He’d have to leave Hogwarts. The thought of it made him sick, and he quickly turned to try and engage Ron in a game of Exploding Snap, when the painting of the Fat Lady swung open.

“Harry Potter?” It was the sixth year Prefect for Gryffindor, Lilianne Thicket. She pushed her overgrown bangs out of her face as she spoke, her voice reverent. Harry smiled wanly, encouraging her on. “Headmaster Dumbledore would like to see you in his office.”

Harry felt his smile slip a bit, but he fixed it firmly back in place as he got up and bade farewell to his friends. He followed behind Thicket, wondering what Dumbledore would want, now. His mentor hadn’t even spared him a glance since the Opening Ceremony when Harry had wanted - needed - confirmation that everything would turn out alright. That Voldemort’s reign wouldn’t continue throughout his seventh year. That no more innocent people would die. And Dumbledore had ignored him, stroking his beard and glinting his strange eyes, always out of sight but never far from Harry’s mind.

And now he wanted to see him, a few days after his magical outburst. Harry was beginning to resent the man.

Thicket left Harry on top of the stairs that led to Dumbledore’s office, her giggle high-pitched as she ran back down to tell her friends all about escorting the great Harry Potter. Harry sighed, and rolled his shoulders to get rid of the tension. He was used to this, and it really shouldn’t have bothered him so much. Putting the situation from his mind, Harry rapped twice on the door and walked straight in when it magically opened.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, Fawkes perched on his shoulder. Long, wizened fingers absently stroked the blazing feathers, his face pensive as Harry plopped into the chair directly in front of him.

There was a beat of silence before Dumbledore began to speak.

“Harry, my boy. I feel as though I have not seen you in forever,” Dumbledore said. Harry fought not to snort and settled into the chair. Fawkes trilled, a beautiful sound that served to ease Harry’s nerves, but he did not lower his guard. 

He’d long ago understood that Dumbledore used unfair tactics to get him to calm down.

“I was wondering why you didn’t call to see me, earlier,” Harry said lightly. 

Dumbledore’s blue eyes caught his. “I had been rather busy as of late. There are many advancements we’ve made Harry, but first, let’s chat.” He raised a hand, and on cue, Fawkes flew to his perch by the window and settled down to peck at his wings. An enchanted tea set, made of cups painted in an assortment of different colors, rattled into being. The kettle poured a stream of steaming hot tea into a polka-dotted mug and Dumbledore plucked it out of the air, offering it to Harry.

He took it if only to have something to do with his hands.

“Severus tells me you performed a feat of extraordinary magic recently,” Dumbledore said, sipping his tea. He looked like he was thinking about something, his gaze was far away.

Harry flushed, looking away. “It was an accident, sir. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, it just all came out suddenly. I’m sorry.”

The older wizard hummed and popped a biscuit into his mouth from the tray on his desk. When he had finished chewing, he smiled kindly at Harry. 

“I understand you’re going through difficult times, and accidental magic isn’t punishable. As a school, it’s our duty to ensure our students need not restrain their abilities until they overflow like a boiling kettle.” 

Harry said nothing and thought of all the times at Hogwarts when he’d felt so alone. A duty indeed.

“Okay,” Harry muttered. “Well, it won’t ever happen again. Hermione’s been helping me and I think we’re making good progress.”

Dumbledore nodded and smiled again. Harry tried not to feel as though it was his grandfather. Dumbledore was his mentor, the man that kept him safe as much as he could. Harry could trust him, even if he sometimes did the most maddening things. 

“That’s good to hear. Just know that nobody blames you, Harry. Nobody ever blames you.”

Yes. And that was precisely the problem. Nobody dared to hold him accountable, and while he was grateful he wasn’t expelled, it rubbed him the wrong way that he was treated so sparingly compared to others. Zabini had been right in the Infirmary. It was a wonder Harry was still here. He simply sighed, and said, “Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore only washed his eyes over him, warmth like melted butter in his gaze. Harry tried not to feel too mollified. “Now that we’ve got that settled, there are urgent matters you and I should discuss, Harry. Severus has found the last of the Horcruxes.”

Harry choked on his sip of tea and set the rattling mug down on Dumbledore’s desk. It was like a dozen Sneakoscopes had gone off in his head, buzzing and whirring about, flapping the cobwebs off of his brain and forcing him to think. The last he was told of the Horcruxes, there had only been three left to find; the diadem, Hufflepuff’s Cup and the Gaunt ring. Of course, there was Nagini, but that would be taken care of in the final battle. Most likely by Harry, he mused on second thought.

“He did all this over the summer?” Harry asked, reeling.

“Heavens, no. Severus has found time between his numerous tasks to go in search of them. We ower him a great deal Harry.” Dumbledore set down his mug beside Harry’s and leaned forward. Harry found himself listening intently, and he wondered why Dumbledore hadn’t chosen him to go out in search of the Horcruxes, instead. “However, there is one more thing I need from you.”

Apart from tearing down a Potion master’s memories, losing my childhood and fighting the Dark Lord, you mean? Harry thought bitterly. His magic flared, a bright burst of heat enveloping his skin. Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened and seemed to trail over the blurred edges around Harry’s body. He made a soft noise as if he had discovered the key to Harry’s soul. And perhaps he had if Harry didn't reign himself in. Gritting his teeth behind closed lips, Harry forced his magic back into his core and tried not to cringe at the stuffed feeling it left him with.

Harry resisted the urge to snap his fingers and instead clearing his throat, gesturing for Dumbledore to go on.

“There will be one final Horcrux, apart from Nagini on the night that we wage war against Voldemort. There will be things I ask you to do, and they might not make sense to you, now, but at that moment, you will know everything.”

Harry pursed his lips, trying to figure out what Dumbledore meant. Maybe it was an extra Horcrux they hadn’t accounted for. So far they only knew of 6, and there were seven. Still, Harry inhaled deeply. If it meant Voldemort would be destroyed, then he would do his best. After all, he was Harry Potter.

“I’m prepared to do what it takes, sir,” Harry said. He didn’t mention that he would do whatever it took for him and his friends to be free, again. The greater good hadn’t ever really appealed to him, but when Voldemort had started murdering innocents, it had only strengthened his resolve.

Dumbledore nodded as if placated, and settled back into his chair. The air of urgency vanished, and suddenly it was mentor and apprentice, and Harry felt exhausted. 

“I’ll let you off for your dinner, now. Thank you, Harry. For everything.”

With that, Harry nodded at the old wizard and hurried out to go and tell Hermione and Ron what had happened. No matter how frustrated he was, he wouldn’t ever leave them out of the plans. They’d been his pillars far too many times to do that to them.

[][][][]

Lilianne Thicket scribbled the last finishing touches to her note and made sure to douse it with a spritz of her Crystal of Celestina perfume. Yes, the note was supposedly from Eleanor, but she wanted to make sure Harry was always thinking of her, especially as he rejected her sister for being far too young for him to love.

Which was just as well, because then she would come into the common room the next day with her blonde hair curled, and she’d add rouge to her cheeks to give herself some color, and Harry would have to look at her, then. Smiling to herself, Lilianne tapped the note. It folded smoothly into a pastel pink paper crane and lifted into the air, fluttering its wings. She tapped it again, and murmured, “to Harry Potter,” and off the note flew.

She checked around to make sure nobody was watching her, but they were all stuffing their faces full of dinner. Lilianne grimaced at the roast meat, glazed potatoes and dessert, instead picking at a salad, and kept one eye on Harry at all times. Just like the past six years of her life.

Her gaze, glazed with adoration and misplaced love, did not meet the silver-stung eyes on the Slytherin table. 


End file.
